Colonel Greatheart

by H. C. Bailey

  Colonel Royston rose and turned from her and kicked the dying logs to a blaze. "There is one who can give you more than I, madame. My friend."

  "I am done with him," she cried.

  Colonel Royston muttered something under his breath.

  Her laugh rang harsh. "He! He never knew me—a popinjay, a play actor, a mad knight errant. Now he is pleased to cast me off—because he could not suffice me—a narrow fool!"

  "Has he found you out?" Royston sneered.

  "He—that dull, cold-blooded thing! Nay, I have found his weakness. I am done with him."

  Royston laughed too. "O, madame, no one will doubt who is in the right of it. I' gad, I pity you and give him joy. Whom have you played traitor with now?"

  "Do you believe that?" she said with quiet scorn. "Am I any man's woman? I'll give nothing for who does not give me all. He—he can not. There is no power in him." She rose and came to Royston and put one hand on his shoulder. "Nay, then, look at me if you do not fear." With a quick, impatient movement Royston turned to face her. He was flushed and his brow drawn. There was blood in her cheeks too. She throbbed and her eyes glowed dark with eager life. "Am I fit for scorn," she said in a low voice, "am I naught for a man's heart? Try me."

  For a long while they stood against each other, fierce eyed, wild of heart. Then, with a strange, hoarse cry, Royston caught her and crushed her helpless and hurt against his breast. He felt her move in his grip and her arms closed about him passionately. She sought his kiss…

  Panting, crimson, she struggled away and held him from her at the full length of her arm. "No," she gasped. "No, I can not bear it. O, that is life indeed."

  Royston gripped her hand. "I have you now. You are for me, for me. I'll not spare you."

  Her lips were parted, she trembled a little. Her face told pain. Then a smile transformed it and her eyes shone. She opened her arms. "I ask no mercy," she said. Again she was close against him.… "We, we are fit mates! You are fierce as I. And I give. Ah, do I not?"

  "Give? Yes. Heaven and hell in one. And I want all, by God!"

  "Heaven and hell," she repeated and clung to him and laughed again. "That is life … Nay, then, let me go," and she came from him and flung the casements open and stood in the rush of the clean spring air, arms wide, drinking it greedily with swelling bosom. Colonel Royston stood apart and watched her, his full, handsome face dark and grim. He strode to her and caught her waist in his arm. She did not yield; she stood alone, lithe and strong, looking through the wind. "Yes. We shall make people suffer," she said and laughed.

  "What do we care?" quoth Royston, compelling her against him.

  "I am glad," she said, and suddenly turned to him. "Power, I want power. You'll take me away from here, out of this dull decay?"

  "Zounds, I ask no better," he laughed. "I have had no joy here, and we had never come but for you, mistress." He took her face in his hand and turned it to please himself. "I suppose you want to meet Jerry as much as I do," he sneered.

  "I hate him! I despise him!"

  Royston shrugged. "Because he'll despise us?"

  "O, you make an idol of that fool!" she cried passionately. "Faith, I'll teach you better. I'll leave you no taste for him."

  "I believe that," growled Royston.

  Below stairs they heard Colonel Stow's voice. Lucinda sprang away, catching wildly at her cloak. Royston flung open the door of his bedchamber and signed her in. Then he sat down again and with slow care began to carve his chessmen.

  Colonel Stow came in. Royston looked up to nod at him carelessly. He appeared lean and harrassed. "You are alone?" Royston waved his tool to the empty room. "They said you had a lady with you."

  "O, bah, a woman of naught," said Royston with vigor. "And she will not trouble you. She is gone."

  Colonel Stow sat down heavily and was as if his strength had gone out of him. He became conscious of some contempt in Royston's stare. "Do I look a weakling, George? I know. I am ashamed that it hurts me so. By Heaven, I am a coward." He shivered and contrived to affect a joyless smile. "Yes, you don't see the best of me, George. I can not hide from you. I—I shall go on. But I am afraid. I have nothing in life to trust."

  Royston gave a crooked smile. "Not even me," he said.

  Colonel Stow reached for his hand, but the graving tool was in it and Royston laughed. "You. Yes, you have given up enough for me."

  "O, lud, do not be grateful," Royston cried. "Well, I judge from your cryptic lamentations madame is unkind?"

  "That is finished."

  "I give you joy. She never deserved you."

  Colonel Stow shrugged. "Is that comfort? … Well … I must needs tell you … It is over … She … she is base."

  "Good lack, does that surprise you?" Royston gave a harsh laugh.

  "I would to God it had been I!" Colonel Stow cried. "If I had played traitor, little matter. But she, she that was the heart of my life—" He turned away to hide his face and Royston heard him groan. "Bah, I am a fool to come whining so, but it is an ease to speak to you, George."

  Colonel Royston was not gentle. "You were a fool with her," he said. "She understood you as I do a virgin saint. She cared as much for your kind of love as I do for religion. And you must be making an angel of her who was just a wild woman. Lud, I have been waiting for the tragedy."

  Colonel Stow thrust back his hair. "O, I have been a dreamer. I know … and still, by Heaven, I am glad of the dream … Well, 'tis done … George, she bade me play traitor. And now, when we are come to the turn of the fight."

  "The better pay for treason," Royston shrugged.

  "The more damnable shame," said Colonel Stow sharply. He looked long at his friend. "George, I do not know, but—but I have thought that you had a kindness for her. If 'tis not so, well. And I know you have had ill luck here. She might seek—well, you'll not let her work on you? She has a devilish art to kindle a man."

  Royston laughed. "Ha, now we come to it. I am warned to be righteous, am I? I would not take it from any man alive. As for your woman, I know her well enough for what she is, wild life without honor or shame. She is naught to me and shall be so, I swear." He laughed with more vigor than Colonel Stow understood. "And for myself, I'll have my own will, and go my own way, in spite of every woman out of hell. Bah, what have I to do with loyalty? I am loyal to who pays me. That's the creed for a gentleman of the sword. It was yours once and is still mine. I have pledged no faith here. I have no trust to answer. If it serves my turn to stay, I'll stay. If it suits me best to be Puritan, I'll go. And who is in the right to reproach me? What have they done to keep me here? Zounds, I will be schooled by no man."

  Colonel Stow rested his head on his hand. "I have asked enough of you, I know. I have brought you to an ill cause. You'll forgive me, George?"

  "0, lud, have done with that. I have no blame for you. Have none for me. Let us go our own ways."

  Colonel Stow looked up quickly. "We are friends still?"

  "If you can be," said Royston with a sneer. "But I have my own life to live."

  "I know," said Colonel Stow sadly. "I know." And again he looked long silent at his friend. "Well … we go on … Do you feel blind, George?"

  Royston did not answer. He let Colonel Stow take his hand and grip it as he went out.

  The door clanged, his spurs clanked over the stones and Lucinda started out of hiding. "Faith, sir, you had fair words for me," she cried. "You forget that I heard all."

  "I meant you to," said Colonel Royston.

  "You mock me, then?"

  "He mocked you when he thought you an angel," Colonel Royston gave an ugly laugh. "O, you shall not cheat yourself nor me. We have done with honor now. We stand for ourselves. We are greedy for all the pride of life. But, i' God's name, let us have no sham of virtue to ourselves. It makes me sick."

  She came to him, peering close at him in the gloom while her fingers twisted in his sash. He was sneering. "Yes, you are strong," she said.

  "The worse f
or us both. Well, we must be gone out of this place. When can you be ready?"

  She laughed. "Ah, you are afraid to face Colonel Stow again."

  "Yes." Royston frowned at her. "I am, by God. You have ruined us two. It was you that brought us to this cursed cause. You have broken his life. You have dragged us apart. I shall not forget. And I think you will pay for all with me."

  He saw that strange, mocking smile of hers. "Let us try," she said and put her hands in his. They were crushed till she bit her lips for the pain. She came nearer still, and her breast touched his … They were lost…

  "When will you come with me?" said Royston hoarsely. "When can you be gone?"

  "Yes, yes, I will go when you will," she gasped. "Now—tonight, if it please you. Nay, but enough now. Let me go."

  She sank to a chair and tried to compose herself. In a moment she was gay with bubbling laughter. "Do you know why we quarreled? He had some tale of a mighty great convoy that is coming from Bristol. If it falls to the Puritans, says he, we are all undone. Why, then, take the tidings to the Puritans, quoth I, give them the last victory and make your profit of it. Then monsieur was all of a flame, like a fool in a tragedy. Is't not delicate? For now we can have our advantage of it. Do you bear the news to Cromwell and make your fortune."

  "I will go bail the devil is a woman," said Royston, glowering down at her.

  She gave back his own words with a laugh, "O, we have done with honor now."

  But Royston was in a difficulty you would not expect her to understand. Out of battle, your gentleman of the sword might change sides when he chose, but he must not bear the plans of one to the other. That was bred in Colonel Royston with his profession, but not in Lucinda. For him who had broken faith with his friend to let the etiquette of the mercenary stay him from a profitable treason was plainly ridiculous. She gazed at him in wondering contempt. Even he, then, had some of the stupid scruples of Colonel Stow. She despised all men for creatures chained in convention.… But Colonel Royston was not in a mood to hesitate long. To possess her he had cast away already the best thing he had. The rest went light.… Swiftly he saw his account in her tale—how to make it sound fairly to the Puritans and give him footing there. "Well, what more do you know, madame spy?" quoth he with a grim smile. "When does your precious convoy come? Who has it in command?"

  "It is close here now, I think. They are to send out some force to escort it in."

  "Ay, that will be to Witney," said Royston to himself. "And who is in command?"

  Lucinda had the wit to lie. She could feel that if he were told the truth then, if he knew the convoy were trusted to Colonel Stow, he would have none of the treason. He was not ready yet to hurt the fame of his friend. A word of the truth then had changed the fortune of more lives than theirs. But she lied easily. "Nay, I do not know that. He did not tell me."

  "Two regiments, may be," said Colonel Royston to himself and walked to the window. "They will not go beyond Witney. It would be neater to snatch the convoy first." He faced round on her. "When do they come?"

  "At once. Tomorrow, I think," she said hastily. She did not know him in this mood. The keen note of command troubled her, made her unsure.

  "So. We must be gone tonight. You must leave your fine dresses behind. You can take no more than you brought. Be ready for me in two hours. I will have a horse for you."

  "O, you are too masterful, sir."

  "I'll be that with you or nothing," growled Royston, frowning at her … "and, by Heaven, I do not much care which."

  She gave a reckless laugh. "I swear that you shall," she said and put up her lips to be kissed.

  A little while before, Colonel Stow, turning in under Tom Tower, was saluted by the officer of the King's Guard. While he answered he saw that it was Gilbert Bourne. With a queer laugh he turned aside to grip the lad's hand. "You were the luckier," he said and went on his way.

  | Contents |

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Lieutenant General Finds an Honest Man

  THROUGH the windy dark, Lucinda rode with Royston and thought of a night when she was borne in another man's arms. It was springtime again and the wild thrill of it in the air, but Colonel Royston was not inspired. He had not the dreams of his friend nor the longing to give Lucinda a new life. She sufficed to him what she was. And he put her by. His mind was devoted to the practical need of the instant, to the neat détour that brought them out of Oxford unseen, unsuspected, by the north road and round the fords at Godstow and Witham to Cumnor, safe on the Abingdon road. It was a perfect evasion. Then, with the methodical carefulness that distinguished him, he made up his story for Cromwell. Of the life beyond, of the woman's call, he had no care. It may be that his mind shrank from it. But Lucinda remembered the earlier time.

  It was a dark gray sky, broken in gulfs of blue that bore the stars. They gave light enough to make all things vague. Royston rode beside her like a creature of dream; the hedgerows stood vast and fantastic; the very road played tricks with her eyes, turned when it went straight, was rough when it was smooth. More than once, fancying she saw a brook or a quag, she reined up sharp. "Zounds, what ails you?" cried Royston at last, startled from his plans.

  "This road is mad, I think, or my eyes." Then, with a nervous laugh, "We are mad, you know."

  "And we will ride on, by God," said Royston.

  The west wind came across them, tingling and keen. On either side the trees were loud in a wild chorus and changing color and shape for each moment. Feathery, powdered catkins brushed across their faces and now a light bough beaten down stung like a whip as they passed. All the night was full of ghostly fear and tumult and strife. When they came down the slope to the wide, dark river levels the uncurbed wind smote stronger, whistling shrill about them and buffeting with mighty thrusts. She cowered before it and shrank into her hood and shivered. All along the way the pollard willows tossed in mad shapes like ghastly dwarfs adance. Her mind was away in strange, ill dreams. She felt herself caught in some grim mockery of life, where nothing was real and nothing made glad. And still she was pierced with memories of that earlier time, of that wild night of joy when he had made her feel the very spirit of the world's force.… She looked uneasily at Royston. But he had no care for her. He rode erect, staring right on, his mind knit upon his own plans.… And the wind yelled at her and the clouds banked thicker before it and the stars went out.

  She was mightily weary and cold before, out of a heavier mass of darkness, tiny lights mocked at them. In a moment after came the challenge of the outposts at Abingdon.

  "Who goes? Who goes? Halt or I fire."

  "Travelers to lie at Abingdon," quoth Colonel Royston.

  "Whence come ye?"

  "From Oxford."

  "Guard! Turn out, guard!"

  Royston turned to Lucinda with a sneering smile. "They are naive here. No place for you." But Colonel Royston himself never understood the Puritan simplicity. If he had he had made another end.

  A sergeant came with his lantern and held it aloft to scan them. "Ye are out of Oxford?"

  "Ay."

  "Why seek ye this godly army?"

  "Sir, for edification."

  "The Lord advance it! But wherefore in the company of a woman?"

  "Regard me as her redeemer. In fine, sir, I have been her salvation. She hath put me in the godly mind to seek you out."

  "I like you not, young man. Nevertheless, ye may be even as Lot which fled out of Sodom. Pursue not his evil example. And in any case you will go before the lieutenant general."

  "It is my earnest desire," said Royston. "Having first found a lodging for the lady, who is all aweary." He preferred to deal with Cromwell alone.

  "The lieutenant general desires no women," quoth the sergeant with scorn. "March !"

  "Happy man!" quoth Royston. As he walked his horse forward the sergeant took the bridle and so with a pikeman on either hand and Lucinda following meekly, they came to Abingdon. The narrow street was all peaceful. Ther
e was no sign of soldiery, no rabble, no loungers. Only through the lighted windows they could see the gathering of companies and they heard chanting and the elect whine of Puritan prayer.

  "And what of a lodging?" quoth Royston. "I suppose all your inns are full to the door of godliness?"

  "No man of this army lies in a tavern who can find him another bed," said the sergeant severely.

  Royston whistled. But he had met fanatics before and knew their strength. The sergeant was no boaster. It proved easy to find Lucinda lodging at the Green Man Inn. Royston was led on to the house called the Abbey by the river.

  It was a room of bare brick walls set with timber and high, dim, timbered roof. The candles flickered and guttered in the crossing drafts. Colonel Royston stopped short and saluted. He was not used to admire other men. But, "this is the first King I have seen in England," said he to himself.

  It was no beauty, at least. A big, loose man that spread over his chair; the wisp of linen at the collar of his buff coat was crumpled and stained with blood; his face was coarse, fleshy and red, but the hard angles of the bones stood out and in the midst a mighty ridge, a stockade of a nose; there was something that might have been desire for moustachios or lack of a razor; his under lip was cracked and raw; his hair hung in a lank mass of pale brown. But there was height in the ample brow and the seaming furrows of endurance and thought. But his eyes had the true light of steel and a ruthless strength.

  The lieutenant general surveyed Colonel Royston, who liked it well enough. He never doubted his own powers. "Who art thou, friend?"

  "George Royston, sometime major in the service of Gustav Adolf and colonel with the Duke of Weimar."

  "What make you here?"

  "Safety for a woman, work for myself."

  A man who had been writing at Cromwell's elbow looked up at the neat phrase. This was one with an air of some refinement, trim and precise, the commissary general, Ireton. "You come from Oxford?" said he amiably.

  "A plain tale can be brief, sir. I came to England on a quarrel with M. de Turenne. I am bred to war and born for it, but little skilled in the matter of politic. I chose the King, because the King's cause should be England's." He laughed. "That fancy amuses me now, gentlemen. I have been in Oxford. Yes, I have been in Oxford and seen the Popish lasciviousness of that court and the rule of fools. I found swiftly that it was no place for a soldier who honored himself and feared God. I made my resolve to seek the honest cause—yours, sir." He saluted stiffly. "I'll confess I was hastened at the last by the persecution of an honorable lady. It was a maid brought to that Babylon by her mother, my Lady Weston. She dying, left the girl friendless. She was thereafter pursued by the lordlings of that vile court most shamefully—bah, I am hot at speaking of it. Well. She could get there no succor nor redress. Then I—for I profess an honest affection for her—bade her come with me to a camp where men regard the honor of women. The which she hath done. I have lodged her here and am here to serve you. I can do it."